Honey in His Mouth

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He should have paid the bill. But who would have thought that some afternoon he would drive into a filling station and there would be D. C. Roebuck standing by a gas pump? He saw that Roebuck was holding up five fingers to the attendant and could hear Roebuck’s harsh voice, like glass being chewed: “Five regular, Mac. And check the oil.”

Walter Harsh did the only thing he could think of, sit there with hands on the steering wheel, foot on the brake, a mouse nest gathering in the pit of his stomach. He wished he had not talked D. C. Roebuck into letting him have seven hundred and twelve dollars worth of photographic supplies on tick. Mostly he wished to hell and gone that he had not run into D. C. Roebuck.

It came to him that just sitting there in the parked car he was a sitting duck. He eased the gear shift into drive position and pressed the gas pedal with his foot. Just then Roebuck turned and saw him. “Hey!”

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